It's funny. The one thing that George W. has said recently that I actually thought was interesting was where he intimated that the war on terror might not ever be won. He said, "I think you can create conditions so that those who use terror as a tool are less acceptable in parts of the world."

True that. I liked that he said it because it was honest. It wasn't smoke blown up my ass like "smoke 'em out of their holes." But now of course he is backtracking and promising that we'll win the war. And of course every Demmycrat is jumping all over him for being a flip flopper. Be honest, George! I don't like you so much, but I like when you speak that unscripted silly little mind of yours.

How do we know if and when the war on terror is over? We can't go two or three more years with nothing happening, then think, "That's it! It must be over!" What if some kid who today has no home in Iraq, who had his father or sister or mother or brother killed by an American bomb, decides in twenty years to blow himself up on a bus? Is the war back on? Was it ever over?

There will always be terror. There will always be someone with a beef against someone who has more power. Whether or not they act on that beef is whether or not there will be terrorism. It really is a war that can't ever be won. It will be a war that will always be in limbo.

One of the consistent messages the RNC is pumping out is that we are "a safer America." How? How do you know that? We felt pretty fucking safe on September 10, 2001. Safety wasn't even a thought in my mind. Before that, we had the first WTC bombing and Oklahoma City. The first one didn't seem like much. Oklahoma City was more shocking. And who is to say that there isn't some other Timothy McVeigh like creature somewhere in America plotting to blow up a government building? Maybe flying under the radar while we put all of our resources into spying on people of Arab descent. Neighbors worry more about the guy with the dark skin who talks funny more than the white guy cooking burgers.

For once, the president told the truth, and now he's taking lots of shit for it. Just so you know George, I agree with you. We won't win this war. We'll do a lot to make it seem like that. But somewhere in the future, perhaps when we are all dead and gone, and security at airports goes back to what it was like pre 9/11, someone will do something.

In February, I posted a story about the crazy lady who asked that age old question, "How would you like it if you fell asleep on the subway, only to wake up to a man jerking off on your face?"

Well, this morning on my way to get some coffee, I saw her again. Only at first, I didn't realize it was her. But when I walked by her, I heard her say to the man that she was talking at, "I woke with a man's hand on my breast..."

Damn, lady!

At first I found this kind of funny, but then I realized it's actually quite sad. Not because she's homeless and apparently gets molested a lot, but this homeless lady actually gets more ass than I do.

Well, come Wednesday, I might be homeless as well. I think I know who I'm asking out for a date. I hope she puts on her craziest red lipstick for our big night out, picking food out of dumpsters.

So I am still looking for an apartment. I might be homeless in the middle of next week. I have been looking on craigslist all day and have become very frustrated. Nothing is more annoying than getting to the end of a posting and seeing, "females only please." Put that shit up front, you fucks!

My favorite so far was this second to last sentence in what sounded like a great place: "I'm looking for gay dudes to share the space with."

I would prefer if you put that up front. Please follow the inverted pyramid theory of journalism. To me, that sentence is the equivalent of, "I wouldn't mind fucking you in the bum every once in a while."

Ugh. Today I go see this apartment near where I live now that sounded pretty sweet. One bedroom, reasonable price, supposedly great views. And oh yeah, by the way we neglected to tell you that the person who is currently living there is a fucking slob with a cat that smells like a sewer.

It was fucking disgusting. Flies all over the place. Trash everywhere. And the view? A lovely view of Metropolitan Ave. right at an intersection. So you just know it's nice and quiet! The realtor said, "Don't worry. We are going to paint so it be nice."

All the paint in the world couldn't beat this smell. You could burn the place down, rebuild it twenty years later, and it will still smell like cat ass.

When I was in college, one of my roommates was a virgin. One time we were sitting around with my other two roommates and we were talking about being kids. We started talking about what age we became interested in girls. And Steve, the virgin, said, "I didn't really get into girls until high school."

I then said, "Well Steve, technically, you still have never gotten into girls."

I am running out of things to blog about. Either that or I'm just not trying too hard anymore. This weekend I was walking by a playground, and thought, I can't remember the last time I was on a see-saw. Last year, I would have had a something brilliant to say about that. But now, that's all I got. I simply can't recall the last time I was on a see-saw.

The other day, the crazy lady that yells at her poor cat started yelling to the entire neighborhood the following, "That barbecue smells like gas! Where is that?! That barbecue smells like gas! Turn it off! Is that my building?! That barbecue smells like gas!"

I'm guessing it was the propane that smelled like gas. Sometimes propane will do that.

I often think my blog is infinitely more interesting than I am. One time I was on a date with a very nice gal, and during a lull in the conversation, she said to me, "I wish your blog was here." I don't believe she intended for it to sound as bad as it sounded. But it sounded bad. But I got over it. I now bring my blog with me wherever I go.

Every day I see something else that reminds me of how awful going to Jersey City would be. And then I think, Well, at least there is a really nice view of New York from over there.

So then I could look at the beautiful view of New York and think of all the awesome things that are going on betwixt the buildings. Then I'll go sit in the shitty food court and cry.

A special nod to my pal, neighbor and now former co-worker Kat, who got out while the getting is good. I will miss her knowledge, her style, her voice, but most of all, I'll miss her initials.

This past Friday, my wonderful sister Christina married a fella named Tom. I am now the proud owner of a brand new brother-in-law. I finally have the sibling in my family who can beat the shit out of me.

I once told both of my sisters that I probably wouldn't be able to do much for them in the event they are wronged by their boyfriends. Christina was dating Tom, who can bench press trucks, and my other sister Laurie, was dating a Marine who was capable of killing me with his eyelashes. She has since broken up with him and is dating someone new, who is not trained by the military. I think it would be a good fight. He'd probably win, but I think I could hold my own for a little bit.

The only way I would be confident in defending their honor is if one of them dated a baby. I could totally beat the shit out of babies.

Anyway, the wedding was a blast. A blast? I just said "a blast." I'm surprised. So Happy Days of me. Anyway, I danced and drank and sweated a lot. I did shed one tear when Laurie gave her little Maid of Honor speech. Good times. It's the first wedding where I had a tear come out. I got a little emotional at Rick's wedding and also Rich's wedding, but I had been drinking a lot all week, so I was too dehydrated to cry. I probably would have cried vodka. People could have done shots. "Make him cry! That shit is pure!"

Yesterday, I was in Central Park and I was walking next to a cop. I heard the dispatcher giving a description of someone videotaping a building. Not sure which building, but he was wearing a green shirt and a red hat. So I was imagining it was an Arab with his family taking some photographs of the Empire State building.

"Attention all units. An Arab man is photographing the Empire State Building. He is with four accomplices. Three of them are abnormally short and keep referring to the photographer as 'daddy.' Most likely a code name. Approach with extreme caution. His skin color is olive. I repeat - olive."

Last May, I spoke of Arabs not being able to film anything on their camcorders without people suspecting them of blowing something up. Good to know we are still vigilant.

For what it's worth (not too much), the posting from last May is one of my personal favorites. I've got to update that Greatest Hits list over there.

Just when I'm about to move out of my neighborhood, things start to get interesting. Yesterday, I spoke of the forever crying baby. There is also this lady who yells at her cat nonstop.

"Buddy," she starts off calm. "Buddy. Buddy! BUDDY!!!!!" It turns quite angry. She's nuts. And she acts like this cat can talk back to her. Here was the conversation from yesterday:

Lady: Buddy! What are you doing?

Buddy: (Just sits there quietly and looks back at the Lady.)

Lady: BUDDY! BUDDY! You are driving me nuts!

Buddy: (silence)

Lady: What are you doing? Taking a cocky?

Me: (Uncontrollable laughter)

Buddy: (Does nothing except continues to take his "cocky")

Lady: Oh, Jeez! Come on! Buddy! Buddy! BUDDY!

I couldn't believe she said "cocky". My neighbor when I was a kid used to say that all the time to her kids. "You gotta take a cocky?" Is there a worse word for poop? I'm going to start using it more often. Especially at work. "If anyone needs me, I'll be in the bathroom. Gotta take a cocky."

And now the hat trick for my weird neighborhood goings on happened this morning. I walked out of my apartment and I saw a rat on the hood of a car. This car is a car that I always see. It belongs to one of my neighbors. Anyway, after being kind of startled, because I've never seen a rat in my 'hood, I noticed that it was a fake rat. A plastic rat. So now I'm assuming this guy is involved with either the Mafia or anti-Union.

Maybe it's a good thing I'm getting out of the 'Burg. What with crying babies, cats taking cockies all over the place, and people being threatened by toy rats, it might be a good time to leave.

This past weekend, there was a baby crying almost non-stop somewhere in my neighborhood. It was probably within three buildings from me and the parent (if there even was one) must have been outside or close to the window, because I could hear it loud and clear.

It was a torturous cry. I don't know how they put up with this baby. It wouldn't shut the fuck up. I'm curious to know what was making it cry so much. I was a little concerned. As I was listening to it, I thought, I wouldn't be surprised if hear one of those "baby in a dumpster" stories. Horrible thought, but I could see it happening.

As awful as putting a baby in a dumpster is, the phrase, "baby in a dumpster" has kind of a funny ring to it. Like, it could be a segment on a talk show.

"Now it's time for Baby in a Dumpster! And here is your host, A Baby!"

Ode to My Apartment (an ode which doesn't rhyme at first, but then does)

We only have two short weeks left.I still don't know where to go!But I won't miss you so much.With your dishes piled high,and fruit flies that don't die.I won't miss your oppresive heat,nor people upstairs, their heavy feet.I won't miss roommates and their lovers.Not the dead of winter and needing more covers.Mornings of no hot water.Or the fear of my imminent slaughter.Noisy people in the middle of the night.Construction workers at the crack of light.I will miss my short walk to the train,when I'm umbrella-less in the rain.I'll miss my short walks to the bar,I could stumble home on my feet, not in my car.I might not miss the hipsters, all cooler than thou,their sullen eyes below a furrowed brow.Soon I'll be gone, and you a memory.Maybe I'll come back, we'll chat over tea.But now I bid you adieu,in your own filth to stew.

I'm watching the opening ceremonies for the Olympics right now and I must admit they are pretty amazing. As I sit here and watch the beauty, take in the splendor, lose my head in fantasies of being an Olympian, and listen to Katie Couric and Bob Costas describe each and every scene, there is one thought that keeps running through my mind.

Shut the fuck up!

Good Lord, these two are terrible. "And this is meant to symbolize Man's blah blah blah blah blah blah lame joke here."

So annoying. It was like watching a movie with people talking behind you. This isn't the fucking Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. The creators of this show didn't design it with you in mind. It is supposed to be watched and heard with what they are giving us. If I wanted to know the symbolism behind every damn thing, I would have Googled "symbolism of opening ceremonies greece big boobs".

Anyway, here are some random thoughts.

I got a little uncomfortable when that lady and man (who were to symbolize love, according to Katie) started to dry hump. It didn't really follow the kid in the boat so well. "Now, here is a nine-year-old boy on a paper boat. Oh, and here are two hot people fucking each other."

How cool were some of those floats?

France got Rick James to carry their flag.

How often do you think the fellas from the United Arab Emirates have been searched on their trip so far? "No, I swear, this gun is for my sport. My event is shooting. Oh, the pipe bomb? Um, well. Ah, yes, that is a new event. Pipe bombing. And then we swim a mile and ride a bike. It's a new triathalon."

Allen Iverson go home! What an asshole. He barely looked up. He was nice enough to give his little backwards peace sign or whatever it is. Makes me mad. And they kept showing him. Show Tim Duncan! Show someone else who is rarely on TV! Show the hot Venezuelans and Brazilians again!

That was a fine reception for the American athletes. Glad they weren't booed. Nice job, Greece. We thank you. Except for Mr. Iverson. He doesn't thank shit.

Spain is hot. Damn. These are some of the hottest lady athletes I've ever seen. Is there a new event I don't know about? The 500 Yard Dash of Pretty Ladies? Synchronized Hot Pieces of Ass?

Non-Olympic thought: Someone got to my site today by searching, "My Grandpa saw my boner". I can offer no assistance. Although, he doesn't really seem to be searching for help. I think he's just letting people know via a Yahoo search.

The introduction and reception for the Iraqis gave me chills. That was cool. And they all have sideburns. I could totally be an Iraqi.

Holy crap! Canada is hot! I totally want to party with those ladies. Oh, Canada!

I feel bad for the random countries that are towards the end of the Parade of Nations. In the beginning, everyone's all excited and they go nuts for everyone. Angola! Yaayayayayayay!! WoOWOWOOWOOWOOOOO!!! (One hour later) Micronesia! Clap. Cough. Clapclap.

So I guess I've got Olympic fever now. Or maybe it's just a slight cough. Whatever it is, kudos! to Greece on a fine opening night. And you suck! to Bob, Katie and Allen. Yankees go home! No wait, we don't want you back here. So, um, go somewhere else. Yankees go to the United Arab Emirates! Or no, go keep that one guy from the British Virgin Islands company. He was all by himself carrying his flag. He seemed lonely. Go chat with him, Katie. Tell him about the symbolism of dry humping.

Last night I got home and I was kind of drunk. Celebrating some asshole's birthday. When I got home, one of my roommates had this awesome puppy that she was watching for a friend. The thing was adorable and was a lot of fun to play with. Thing is, though, I don't much care for dogs. Except for when I'm drunk. I love dogs when I'm drunk. There are lots of things I enjoy while drunk.

When I'm sober though, I get all OCD when it comes to pets. Because I'm allergic, whenever I pet a dog I feel I have to wash my hands immediately, so I can't really enjoy them. Except when I'm drunk and I just don't give a fuck. Like last night. I was drunk. Did I mention that? Anyway, the little shit bit me, but it was so cute I didn't care. If I was sober, I might have punted that thing off my fire escape.

You know what I was kind of OCD about as a kid? Well, do ya? Do you know? No, you don't, because I've never told anyone this. When I would go to church or say my prayers, I'd always have to make sure when I blessed myself, that I closed it off. Does that make sense?

This is what I mean. Let's say I bless myself, right? Then I say my prayer... "Dear God. Bless Mom, Dad, Christina, Laurie, Grandma and Grandpa," I would say. Then I'd add in whatever was specific to that point in my life. "Please let me do well on tomorrow's spelling bee and make Diane Stasik like me..." Anyway, I'd always make sure to bless myself again, because if I didn't, I'd feel that my prayer was still open and that whatever I said or thought, God would hear. So I always made sure that I blessed myself an even number of times, because the last thing I'd want is to accidentally open up a prayer, then later on in the day be on the toilet reading a Cosmo trying to find a dirty article. God would be like, "What a nice boy, even prays on the toilet. Let's see what he has to say. Dear Cosmo, My boyfriend insists on me giving him a bl- Oh, good God! This boy is evil!"

So hopefully I have blessed myself an even number of times, otherwise, these last few years are going to come back and bite me in the ass. Just like a puppy.

I would like to point out that my Uncle Hank was way ahead of the curve on this whole gay NJ governor thing:

Last year he spoke of the first black character (Little Bill) to ever have a float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Later on, he mentioned a rumor about New Jersey's governor being gay, to which I replied, "Black floats, gay governors, what the hell is going on?"

As children, and now as adults, Christina worries a bit about me. No matter where I go, she says, "Be careful." When the security alert recently went Orange, she told me that I should move out of New York. When I was a kid and would go to mow the lawn, she'd tell me to be careful. I wear my seatbelt because of her.

Anyway, a few years ago, she didn't know where I was. I think I stayed at a friend's house or something, but irresponsible me never phoned home, so she didn't know where I was. I got to work the next day and I had an email from Christina simply saying, "Where are you?" I found this funny, because if there were some sort of emergency, would I have access to email?

Anyway, here is what I replied:

help me. i don't know where i am. these guys asked meif i wanted candy, and of course i said yes! but nowthey have me in a basement somewhere and they looklike they are mad at me. and they have a dog who seemsmad too. all for a twizzler! what have i done? thankgod they gave me this computer, though. i'll keep youupdated, but right now, they look like they are aboutto do something with me and the dog.

I wonder who starts tongue twisters. I just tried to create one that began, "I mistakenly misquoted a mosquito..." But that's as far as I got. I think that stands pretty well on its own. Say it ten times fast.

Anyone else catching Olympic fever? Because I sure ain't. It's more like the Olympic yawn. Kind of contagious, but nothing that will linger. I used to get excited about the Olympics (I still love the winter Olympics), but now it's kind of like, "Meh." When I say "meh," I wave my hand at you like I'm saying, "Nuts to you."

I really want the "Dream Team" to lose. These guys really aren't the Dream Team. You can't compare to the original. This team is more like the Five Minute Nap Team. Or the Doze Off While You're Driving Team.

I guess it's not nice to root against your own country, but I'd rather root for underdogs. Is Allen Iverson really a good representative for the USA? Why would I want to root for a bunch of overpaid selfish millionaires when some poor bastards from Yugoslavia or some other country might get a minute or two of fame, and actually seem like they are enjoying themselves? I'd rather see that. Because they've probably got not much else.

What is a better victory? Something like a bunch of amateurs and college players beating the unbeatable Russians in hockey? Or a bunch of basketball pros who have nothing to really play for beating up on Turkey?

In news unrelated to the Olympics or tongue twisters, it was about a year ago that I was in Colorado for the best vacation of my life. During that vacation, we rented Jeeps and drove around some mountains. In the last two weeks, four people have died when they drove their Jeeps off the path. That's not good.

Here is a photo that Rich took. The caption he put beneath the photo was "This is what the trails were like. If we were to slip off.... There is no stopping for 2000 feet."

A bird shit on me today during lunch. It was a small bird, so not much shit. That reminds me of some advice my friend Rich gave me a while ago when I was considering dog ownership and asked what kind of dog I should get.

True. Now whenever I see someone cleaning up their dog's shit and their dog is the size of Marmaduke, I always think they should have spoken to Rich and taken his advice. And then I think, I bet that dog is funnier than Marmaduke.

I pondered Rich's advice and came up with my own advice. No dog. No shit. Or just your own shit. My own shit is enough to worry about. And I don't have to follow myself around with an inside out plastic garbage bag to pick it up with. At least not anymore.

Anyway, my co-worker and pal Gena (pronounced Jenna!) was nice enough to wipe the shit off my back at lunch. That, my friends, readers, and confidantes, is a good person. What's even more amazing about it is that she cleaned it with her tongue!

I joke. She used a napkin. She always carries around a bird shit cleaning napkin.

My sister found an old letter I wrote to her when I was working in Disney World. I used to write letters like a madman. I mean that I wrote a lot of them, not like a literal madman who pastes letters together cut from a magazine or in pig's blood. I liked writing letters. Then email came and destroyed my letter writing creativeness.

Anyway, I wrote this letter to my sister and mentioned this encounter:

I helped a little kid find his parents today. He was crying and I asked him, "Where were you with your parents last?" He replied, "I don't have a daddy."

I had forgotten about that. It was funny, though. Here was some poor kid crying his eyes out and I gave him one more reason to cry. You're lost and you have no dad?! It is over for you, little boy.

I miss writing letters. I don't miss emails though. My email frequency has dropped quite a bit since I've started the blog. I wonder what will make me blog less. I'm going to guess it will have something to do with getting back in to letter writing. Who wants a letter? Maybe I'll write you one.

I was thinking of starting a letter writing business a little while ago. I'd charge people to get letters from me. Something cheap. Everyone likes to get letters, right? And with email, not many people get real live letters anymore. I figured there are hundreds of lonely people who'd pay to get an amusing letter every once in a while. But then I decided it would most likely not be very lucrative and I'd eventually get a cramp in my hand. But I'll still send you a letter if you'd like one. Pro bono.

This past weekend was my future bro-in-law's bachelor party. I think I am still drunk and will be for the next month or so. I was up for 24 hours. Started at the beach and ended in the Trump Taj Mahal at a blackjack table at 6 AM where I could barely say "hit me."

We were in Atlantic City. Not India. Trump doesn't own the real Taj Mahal. The weekend was fun. Long. But fun. I met a stripper named Jamie (or maybe it was Amy). I think she took a shine to me.

By the time I got to the blackjack table, I was drunker than most people care to be. I hadn't gambled all day so I wanted to lose some cash. I ended up winning, which was amazing because my brain wasn't working. I couldn't add. I kept having to ask the dealer "how much is that?" This wasn't difficult math. I couldn't put 7 and 5 together.

On Sunday, we went to Monmouth Park for the Haskell. We stayed for only 3 races, basically because we were all retarded. I saw some friends there, and I just stared. I couldn't talk. It was like I was back at the blackjack table but I didn't have the dealer there to guide me. The dealer's name was Frances, but I kept calling her Princess, because all I could see was the "NCES" at the end of her name tag. Although, I guess I should have been calling her Princes. Princess was better. She was my Princess at the time. Letting me win money and doing simple math for my remaining dozens of brain cells.

Anyway, I still feel somewhat out of it, so I'm going to end this and go to bed.

I'm getting rid of these comments soon. I don't like them. So get your rocks off now, because they'll be gone in a day or so and you'll just have to email me. No complaining, ya lazy bastard.

Below are two photos of what I can see when I turn around in my office. This is why I would rather not work in Jersey City. I like my view. I like my office. I like going to Central Park on my lunch break. I like the options I have for lunch. In Jersey City there is a food court. That's about all. They have a deli and a grill. The usual stuff. And a pasta bar call Pasta-bilities. That's a fucking play on words. I like pasta and I like puns, but I'd rather stay up here on the 32nd floor.

Photo 1, which has some sunflowers in the foreground. A fella in my office organized the sunflower experiment. They are behind me because this window gets the most sun. It's fun to watch the progress of these flowers. Did you know that in Jersey City, flowers have been known to commit suicide? It's true. Look it up.

Photo 2 is an unobstructed view. Up on the left is a little known structure called the Empire State Building. It's tall. If you look in the middle, you can see the huge Puff Daddy billboard. Every morning, I imitate him and show him my fist and say, "What up, Puff? Have a good night? Me too. How was Times Square last night? Quiet? Yeah, right! OK, Puffy, I'm going to get to work. If you need anything, just tap me on my shoulder. What's that? Sorry, but I'll never call you P. Diddy. You'll always be Puffy to me. I'm sorry, what? No, you MY nigga!"

Gather 'round, bitches. It's story time. This story might get a little boring in the middle or even in the very beginning, but I promise the ending is funny. Well, only one line is funny. Damn, this story sucks!

When I was 18 or 19, I was driving around the town of Red Bank, NJ with my friend Mike. We were looking for something to do one night. I often wonder what I did for fun when was in my pre-21 days. I don't recall. I know there were coffee houses and diners. And we played pool.

Well, this one night in the middle of the summer, we were sick of the same shit. But what to do? I just drove around some roads that I didn't know too well, and we kept our eyes peeled for bikini car wash or something. We found nothing.

I think we finally decided on caving in and going to play pool, so we headed that way. I was on these back roads that I wasn't very familiar with. I noticed that every other intersection, I'd have a stop sign. So I'd go one block, stop sign, next block, no sign. It went like that.

I was approaching one intersection after having just stopped at one, so this one was sans stop sign. I noticed a car coming down the road to the right. It was moving quickly, but my 18 or 19-year-old brain kept me driving and assuming that person in control of that car would stop.

We got closer, the other car got closer. I got to the intersection, not stopping, because there was no stop sign and it's my fucking right to not stop. The person driving the other car apparently had no regard for stop signs.

All of the sudden (well, not all of the sudden, because I was watching this fucker not stop the whole way), this car was headed right for Mike in the passenger seat. I swerved to the left in an attempt to get away from this car. I was just about to say, "Holy shit, Mike. We almost got hit by that car," when BAM! The car hit the back right side of my car. I spun around and was now facing the way from which I came.

I looked again to triple check that I didn't have a stop sign. I saw that I was right, he was wrong. I kind of flipped out. I wanted to pound this dumb fuck's head. I wasn't thinking. I hastily undid my seatbelt and got out of my car wanting to show what some good ol' American road rage was all about.

I headed towards the other car, Mike got out of the car and was telling me to calm down. I then heard someone blasting some rap. I assumed it was coming from this other car and all of the sudden was expecting the kid from Menace II Society to get out of the car and bust a cap in my ass. That's what people who listen to rap do. They bust caps in asses, right?

Anyway, I calmed down, took a breath, then saw the tiniest, most timid Asian man emerge from his car. He was not listening to the rap. It was someone who lived near the intersection blasting it from the windows.

So I looked at him and said, "You had the stop sign." I pointed right at it. He then said in some not very good English, "I did not see sign."

No shit?

So of course, nothing brings out the neighbors like a good car accident. Everyone peeks out their windows, comes down from their apartments to stare. Someone yells down to me, "Do you need to use my phone?" I say no. I then go to move my car out of the middle of the road, assuming there is just some body damage and it should be fine. I go to start it and nothing happens. Shit. So I yell up, "Actually, can I use your phone?" Some guy down the block yells, "I already called them!" Mike says back, "You called his parents?" The guy replied, "Oh. No. The cops."

At this point I hadn't even thought of calling the cops. My first instinct was to call my dad. He's a cop, so it's kind of like calling the cops.

So this lady invites me up to her apartment. This wasn't the best neighborhood. It was the suburban equivalent of the projects. I go up to this apartment and there was a lady probably in her 40's and in a bathrobe who lets me in to use the phone. She was really nice and asked me if I was OK and offered me some water. I declined and picked up the phone.

I call my house and I am talking to my sister when I see from out of another room comes this guy. This guy was the stereotype of a crackhead. When Samuel L. Jackson researches his crackhead roles, I'm convinced he studies this guy. He was incredibly skinny, had a filthy head of hair, was smoking a cigarette with shaky hands, and -- here's the kicker -- he wore nothing but a pair of underwear. The tight white. The tightest I've ever seen. He was kind of a cross between the crackhead that Jackson plays in Jungle Fever and the Damon Wayans homeless character from In Living Color.

I end my phone call and am on my way to the door and the crackhead (who might have never ever touched crack in his life, but I'm basing this on what the movies had taught me as a young man) comes over to me, and wishes me luck. He then goes to shake my hand, and I kind of put my hand out, but see that his hand is dirty beyond belief. Like it had boogers and mud on it. So I quickly and nervously pulled my hand away, just kind of held it up, and waved to him. I then quickly and nervously left.

I go back out and the cops are there. There wasn't much of an investigation to do. The cop even said at one point when he asked me to fill out the report, "It's pretty obvious what happened and it's not your fault." One thing about these two cops was that they were wearing shorts. I didn't really think much of it.

My parents quickly and nervously got there. I was fine, unhurt and more worried about the car. So my dad bullshitted with the cops for a while, because that's what cops do with each other. The Asian man had a relative show up who helped him write the report, which when I got his copy in the mail a few weeks later was absolute bullshit. One of the sentences was something like, "I stop at stop sign. I look both ways. I go. All of sudden, car comes from left very very fast and hit me." So I hit him, yet somehow, he spun me around.

Anyway, the whole thing is wrapping up, we thank the cops. They were really cool and seemed to be nice guys. But as they are walking away, one of them turns to us and says, "Oh hey, by the way. We're not fags. We're bike cops."

This was in reference to the fact that they were wearing shorts. I just found that so funny that they would have to clear that up. Like I'd go tell people my story and be like, "Yeah, but the weirdest part were these gay ass cops that showed up in shorts!" And these insecure cops must be thinking the whole time, "Oh man, I hope these guys don't think I'm gay."

Anyway, Mike and I went to our favorite diner after this happened and entertained all of our friends with our incredibly awesome story.

We're not fags. We're bike cops.

One thing I always felt bad about is that after I flipped out and wanted to beat up the other driver, Mike asked me if I was OK. That is, of course, the first thing I should have done. Ask Mike if he was OK, considering the car hit us about two feet behind Mike. If I drove a mile-per-hour slower, it might have hit him and caused much worse damage than a dent. So Mike, I'm glad you're not dead. And I'm sorry for not asking if you were OK. Sorry to get all mushy here, like I'm a bike cop or something, but I felt bad about that.

Now that I have comments on my blog, I'd like to set a few ground rules. I don't like confrontation and the last place I need it is on my blog. With that in mind, here are some examples of acceptable comments:

-- That was hilarious!-- Oh my God, you are brilliant. And you are my new God.-- I bet you have a big penis. Can I see it? (this one is for the ladies)-- What a great point. It is impossible to argue with what you just said. It is so astute, in fact, that I have changed my mind on the issue in question, and will alter my opinion and my vote. Thank you for showing me the light.-- I have been looking for someone to father my children. I'd like for you to inseminate me.

I think if we follow these rules, the comments will be a welcome addition. Oh, please don't say LOL. I'd rather you spell it out. Like, "I am laughing out loud." LOL is so lazy. Stop being so lazy.

Here I am on the second lap of my blog. What I mean is that in my second year, things are repeating on me. Today is another Ice Cream Social in my building. This happened last August. Next August this office will be in Jersey City, where Ice Cream Socials are merely part of a dream. But will I be in that office? That is the question.

I have been stuck at this crossroads. It's causing me to stay up late and think. If you know me, I hate thinking. But I do it too much. Overthinking. This is all based on my oversized indecisiveness. I can't make decisions. If I was a pregnant girl, I'd probably decide to have an abortion by the time my child graduated high school.

Anyway, the Ice Cream Social is all the rage today. Everyone is talking about it. Some are even reverting back to being children. I just heard someone ask, "When does ice cream start?!"

Not, "What time will they start serving ice cream?" When does ice cream start? As if the ice cream can actually start serving itself. The ice cream is making the decision.

Also in my office today there will be cake for "August celebrations." These are birthdays and anniversaries with the company. So my lunch today will probably consist of ice cream and then cake. I'm gonna crap frosting.

I have no interest in seeing M. Night Sham's new movie. His gimmick is old. When you have someone who has a "surprise" ending for every movie, the surprise wears off. Instead you spend the whole movie sitting there wondering what the surprise will be.

I just had a feeling I've typed something similar to this once on this blog, and I have. I'm starting to repeat myself.

I find it kind of odd that this terror alert is so specific. If they did pick up this chatter that mentioned these buildings, couldn't the terrorists just be like, "OK, they know which building we wanted. Go after another one."

Or the terrorists could have been making codes and been like, "When I say the Prudential building in Newark, I really mean the Financial Center in New Orleans."

I don't know. I don't mind when they raise the terror alert, but this doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me. But I guess that's why I'm not the Secretary of Homeland Security. I was pretty close to getting that job. I didn't write a thank you note after my interview though. Totally blew it. George W. Bush is big on things like that.

I'm sick of these terror alerts being in NY. Like my sister Christina said a couple of years ago, "Why don't they bother the west coast? California's just sittin' pretty out there." Lucky bastards.

This weekend I was at my cousin's wedding. I'd like to believe that there will be a special place in hell for the DJ.

He was the most annoying DJ I've ever seen, and more importantly, heard. He wouldn't shut the fuck up. He started off by saying something like, "Are all you party people ready to party? (smattering of woos and applause) Aw, come on, you can do better than that. I said, 'Are all you party people ready to party?'" But with his New York accent, it was, "pawty people."

More applause, slightly louder. A stupid question, because he is already under the assumption that we are party people, so of course we should be ready to party. That's what we do.

He also did the, "Everybody say 'Yeah!'" which I can't stand. He was very demanding. He kept making people say things. "Just the ladies, say 'Yeah!' Now the guys. Say 'Yeah'. Aw, I can't hear ya. Now everyone who ordered the Prime Rib, say 'Oh yeah!'"

OK, I made the last line up, but he wasn't far from it. At one point he told everyone who was on the dance floor turn to the camera and wave. Then he said, "Now, everyone say 'We love you' to the camera." How spontaneous! "OK, now is a good time for everyone to go to the bathroom. Even if you don't have to, let's go. Try and squeeze something out. I'm not playing the Macarena until you do."